


Something to Each Other

by DarylDixonGrimes



Series: Desus Holiday Bingo '17 [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Banter, Christmas, Desus - Freeform, Desus Holiday Bingo, Fluffy, Haircuts, Kisses, M/M, Playful teasing, Touching, fluffy af, soooo fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: Daryl gets frustrated on a hunt for Christmas dinner and goes to town on his hair with a hunting knife. After a good laugh at the mess he's made, Paul finds some scissors and fixes it up.Or some Christmas Desus.





	Something to Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> For Desus Holiday Bingo. Intended for the "predicament" square.

The second time Daryl fires his bow and misses, he knows he’s got a problem.

The Hilltop is planning some kind of Christmas-style dinner with everything from garland to a big tree decorated with homemade ornaments done by the kids. They have plenty of vegetables and grains for side dishes and bread, but it had taken one single wistful comment from Maggie about not having anything for the center of the table to have Daryl pulling on a coat, grabbing his bow, and walking right out into the snow.

He’d been hoping for a deer, but so far all he’s seen is two wild rabbits, and he’s missed both of them. The first time, he’d thought I was a fluke. He rarely misses, but he does have his moments. The second time, though, he knows it’s not. Double knows when he huffs to blow his hair out of his eyes for the 90th time. 

He can’t fucking see.

He searches all over himself for string or a rubber band or something that would make a passing hair clip, but he comes up empty. So he does the next best thing, shrugging and pulling his knife free from its holster. He likes his hair in some ways. It’s a security blanket, a place for him to hide when there are eyes on him and people looking to him like he has answers when, just like everybody else, he only has guesses. But it’s also itchy as hell on his neck, itchy as hell in general, and it’s keeping him from feeling useful, which is the one thing that keeps him sane other than Paul. 

Catching sight of nearby animal tracks in the snow makes him even more sure this is the right decision.

Pulling off one glove with his teeth, he rips off his hat and stuffs both temporarily into his pocket. Then he grabs a clump of bangs, slicing it right off in a single go, dark locks falling softly onto the snow. He doesn’t bother trying to do his whole head, but he clears his neck too and shakes loose hair out of his scarf before holstering his blade.

One practice shot at a knot in a nearby tree, and he’s ready to follow the tracks, thrilled to find a small wild boar at the end. There’s nothin like a good Christmas ham.

And as heavy and as cumbersome as it is to drag the thing all the way there, a small piece of the constant ball of guilt and regret and self-loathing he carries around melts away when he drags the animal into Hilltop with him.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Maggie says, but she’s smiling ear-to-ear bouncing Hershel on her hip, and of course he did.

“Ain’t Christmas dinner without meat,” Daryl says, shrugging. She squeezes his shoulder and helps direct the men dragging it away. Part of him wants to go help clean it, but he knows he’s not the only one there who knows how, and he’s cold as hell and would much rather huddle around the fireplace in Barrington.

So that’s where he goes. Or intends to go.

“You could tell me before you’re going out there, you know?”

Daryl sighs and keeps walking. He knows Paul’s probably right. After all, they are… _something_ to each other. But he’s never really been someone’s something before, and it’s a game with a whole hell of a lot of rules he doesn’t exactly get or even really know. He’s still learning and as comfortable as he is with Paul, he’s still uncomfortable in general.

“Sorry,” he finally mutters, stomping his boots off outside the front door. He makes his way from the entrance into the dining room where they plan to have their big Christmas feast. There’s a large table already set with mismatched dishes. He walks around it on his way over to the fireplace, dripping melted snow as he goes.

They have a small heater in their trailer, but it doesn't compare to the huge fireplaces of Barrington House. Daryl pulls off his wet gloves and holds his palms out toward the flames. 

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re back,” Paul says, stepping up beside him. “I would have gone with you.”

“I know,” Daryl says, letting Paul slide his arm around his waist. Paul follows it with a kiss, soft and sweet. It’s a “honey, I’m glad you’re home” kiss. And when Daryl pulls back and looks into those blue eyes that have always made him feel like something inside of his chest has been knocked slightly askew, he’s genuinely glad he made it home to him too.

Paul smiles and reaches for his hat, tugging it off his hair. And Daryl waits to feel fingers run along his scalp in the way that only Paul’s can.

But they don’t come. Instead he finds a look of shock that quickly turns into amusement and then laughter.

“Daryl, what did you do?”

His hair. Daryl’d forgotten about his hair. He covers it with his hands, immediately self-conscious. Paul keeps laughing, at him but not _at him_. Daryl’s lips twitch at the sound and he drops his arms. 

“Fuck off. It can’t be that bad.” 

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Whatever,” Daryl grumbles, pulling himself away from the fire to look in a mirror. And when he sees it, he can’t even be mad at Paul for laughing. He looks like one of those damn garbage people.

“For the record, I still wouldn’t kick you out of bed,” Paul says, still snickering.

“Keep talkin and I won’t be in it for a while.” Daryl nudges him with his elbow.

“You couldn’t resist me if you tried.”

“Wanna bet, Karate Kid?”

Paul laughs at that, even more than he laughed at Daryl’s new look.

“Just come in here and sit down,” he finally says, dragging Daryl and a chair into the kitchen. He pushes him down into it and walks over to the cabinets, opening and closing drawers until he finds a pair of scissors.

“You even know what you’re doin?” Daryl asks.

“Can it really get any worse?”

“Asshole.” Daryl smiles.

“Prick.” Paul smiles back and pulls off Daryl's scarf, unfurling it to its full width and wrapping it around him like a shawl. Fingers gently rub at Daryl’s scalp, and Daryl nuzzles into the touch without really meaning to. It took him a long time to willingly admit it out loud, but he loves it when Paul touches him.

He feels Paul’s lips press against the crown of his head, and then he starts gathering hair, twisting in his fingers. Every now and then, he stops to run his fingers through it, probably to make sure it’s mostly even. Either way, Daryl doesn’t complain while he watches the cut clumps of hair build up on the tile around his feet.

Not at first anyway.

“Uh, Paul.”

“Yes?”

“Exactly how much are you cuttin off up there?” Daryl starts to reach up and Paul gently knocks his hand away, prompting Daryl to say “Paul” again more firmly. 

“Take it easy. I’m almost done.” He swipes his hand through Daryl’s hair once more and then steps around him, tilting his head this way and that. One more shnick of the scissors and Paul walks over to put them away before pulling the scarf off of Daryl and shaking it out.

“And I thought you were alright looking before. Who knew all that was under there?” he teases, grinning in a way that makes Daryl feel a little too warm. Daryl walks back into the dining room and looks in the mirror again. He barely recognizes himself. When was the last time his hair was this short? Back at the prison, maybe. He looks so much younger and less heavy. Like Paul cut away a lot more than hair.

“And here I thought you were just good for kisses and kickin’ stuff," Daryl says, walking back in the kitchen to find Paul sweeping up the clippings and dumping them into the garbage. Those impossible blue eyes meet his again and something in Daryl’s chest throbs.

“I’m very good at those things too,” Paul says, opening his arms and engulfing him. Daryl lets him, falling into them and nuzzling against his cheek.

It’s getting easier, being close to someone else and admitting that as uncomfortable as physical contact makes him, he also craves it too. And it’s getting easier to not be uncomfortable at all every time Paul hugs him or kisses him or curls up to next him late at night.

In some ways, it’s like Paul is tearing him down and rebuilding him using only the best parts.

And most of the time, Daryl’s okay with that. Most of the time.

“You were right,” Daryl finally says, looking Paul in the eyes. Or trying to anyway, his gaze darting between them and the wall and the floor and eyes, floor, wall, eyes, wall, eyes. “I should’ve said somethin to you before I left. Should always…”

He stumbles, trying to force the words out because he does want to say them. He momentarily wishes he could undo that haircut so he could hide his eyes behind dark strands again. But he can’t, and he knows on some level he doesn’t want to hide from Paul. Not now, not ever.

“Should always at least kiss each other bye. Just in case.”

“Thank you,” Paul says, taking one of his hands. “I know this isn’t easy for you. It means a lot to me that you said that.”

“I...” Daryl falters. But he wants to say this too, because he knows enough about other shoes and how they tend to drop to know that as peaceful as things have been since the war, peace is never guaranteed. There’s always the chance he might never get another opportunity.

Paul waits, patient, always patient when he needs to be. Somehow, he’s always exactly what Daryl needs. And Daryl hopes he’s the same even though most days he feels fucking inadequate and undeserving as hell.

“I love you,” Daryl chokes out, forcing himself to do it will full eye contact even though it’s making him want to squirm. But he wants Paul to know he fucking means it.

Across from him, eyebrows knit together for a moment and then Paul breaks into a smile. It’s dazzling and Daryl feels so much like he’s staring directly at the sun, he's surprised his retinas aren't burning away. Paul leans forward and kisses him, his hand firmly on the back of his neck. And when he pulls away, he does so without going anywhere, resting his forehead against Daryl’s and holding him close. They share air and space. Daryl doesn’t think about squirming away even once.

“I love you too,” Paul says. “I’m glad I tried to steal that truck.”

Daryl laughs, something rare that very few people can make him do.

“And I told you if I ever find SCUBA gear, you’re goin in after it.”

“And I told _you_ I’d do absolutely anything for you,” Paul says, finally pulling away.

“Cornball.”

“Cornball’s boyfriend.”

Daryl huffs. But he meets Paul’s eyes too. It’s the first time either of them has dared to put a label on what they have. And it feels silly to even notice it when they just exchanged “I love you”s in the kitchen, but Daryl does notice. He thinks about pointing it out. But he doesn’t actually care what they are, just that they are. So he says something else instead.

“Heat on in the trailer?”

"I kept it warm for you.”

“Let’s go then before someone finds garland or mistletoe and tries to rope us into helpin.”

“Some of us actually like to help, Daryl.” But Paul walks out of Barrington beside him anyway, clasping his hand somewhere along the way. And Daryl finds that as much as it used to bother him to hold Paul's hand in public, he barely blinks at it now. It just is. 

Daryl spends the rest of the day curled up in a blanket while his boyfriend makes homemade Christmas cards, letting him steal kisses whenever he pleases. 

And everyone in Hilltop gets a “Merry Christmas from Jesus (and his cute boyfriend with the nice hair)” card that year. Daryl barely grumbles about it.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I welcome loud screaming, cat pics, and prompts at DarylDixonGrimes dot tumblr dot com.


End file.
